


Geneva

by Kahvi



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Humor, LGBTQ Character, Queer Gen, Queer Themes, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prespecified gender roles are like coffee.  They're both human constructs, but can be mighty tasty, and some people need them to get out of bed in the morning. When the MJN crew have to fly an infamous blogger to Geneva, they find themselves having to come to terms with things that are a bit more complicated than coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Geneva

**Author's Note:**

> For Roadstergal, for her encouragement, cheerleading, and eternal inspiration. And help with the summary!
> 
> Written before BaldGate, so the comments on Martin's hair are entirely coincidental. Bit depressing to have to write that disclaimer, but there we are.

“Let’s try this one more time, Arthur.”

Arthur looked up at Martin with attentive, eager eyes. “Go for it!”

Martin sighed. “You know some people are men.”

“Yes.”

“And some people are women.”

“Yes again.”

“Good; so at least you’ve got a grasp of the basics of gender. Now…”

“Now,” Douglas interrupted, “comes the tricky bit.”

Arthur nodded so hard his head seemed about to fall off. “I’m ready.”

“Are you aware,” Douglas said, painstakingly slowly, “that sometimes women start out appearing to be men, and vice versa?”

“No,” Arthur said, firmly, still smiling.

“Right, well, I suppose that was a bit much to ask. Martin; any ideas on how to even begin to explain this one?”

Martin turned his eyes to the console, stubbornly. That’s where he was supposed to be looking, anyway. “I don’t see why I should have to; I’m not his father.”

“A fact for which we are all eternally grateful,” Douglas muttered, sipping his coffee. “Still, it’s worth giving it a go, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“ _Considering_ the fact that we have an infamous blogger on board who will undoubtedly be asking questions , and it might be a good idea if Arthur knew what he was being asked before he refuses to answer them.”

“Why would I refuse to answer them?”

Douglas raised his cup ominously. It was rather a neat trick, Martin thought. “You will refuse to answer because MJN air does not need the publicity.”

“I thought MJN was in rather desperate need of publicity,” Martin interjected, tersely. This entire flight was rubbing him the wrong way, for a whole host of reasons.

“Not _that_ desperate. We fly Norwegian whalers one afternoon and members of Greenpeace the next; we fly gay stag parties and Conservative MPs. We even managed to get two groups of Arsenal and Man United fans safely back to London on the same flight without any major casualties. What I’m saying is, we need to be neutral.”

Throughout this interchange, Arthur was looking increasingly nervous. “Look, everyone; you really don’t have to explain everything. I mean, _any_ thing. Sort of… thing. I do understand, you know.”

“Understand _what_?” Douglas asked, very, very carefully.

“Elgeebitty.”

Martin twitched, as he always did when confronted with an unfamiliar word he had a vague suspicion he should know. He kept his eyes fixed on the controls, just in case anyone had noticed. There was a moment’s pregnant pause, Douglas’s equivalent of Martin’s desperate nonchalance, possibly, before Douglas ventured; “ _Ah._ LGBT,” he enunciated with clarity.

“Is that how you say it, then? Yeah, that one.” Arthur, as ever, was the picture of grinning contentment. “I’ve really only seen it written down.”

“So,” Martin told the altimeter, “you know what it means.” He tried to make it a question, but failed miserably.

“Of course I know what it _means_!” When a few uneventful moments passed, Douglas made an encouraging gesture, and Arthur went on; “it’s, you know, parades and things. How people are different, but all the same, because it’s all right to be different, so you’re not really different, even if you are. And that’s OK,” he added, on reflection.

“I suppose,” Douglas sighed, trying to catch Martin’s ignoring eye, “we shall have to call that close enough.”

* * *

They were picking their mysterious passenger up in Fitton, which did go some ways towards explaining Martin’s mood, he told himself. Fitton flights meant, more often than not (and certainly had meant today), flying on a near-empty stomach and about four hours of, thanks to student-partying-interruptions, sleep. At least when they flew out of somewhere else, Martin could be reasonably sure to have gotten one or two square meals in the last twenty four hours, and something resembling a good night’s rest. Besides, being at work – what he considered to be his _real_ job – always left him in a cheery mood. Being sore and tired after lugging three van-loads of ratty furniture from Fitton to London and back for miserly pay, did not. Then, of course, there was the matter of that passenger and his mysterious nature, and the latter was something on which Martin had tried not to dwell the entire morning.

It had started, as these things often did, with a text message from Carolyn. ‘DO NOT ANSWER ANY OF MR SMITH’S QUESTIONS, NO MATTER WHAT THE LITTLE RUNT TELLS YOU’ in her customary laid-back, all-caps style. The ‘Mr. Smith’ in question was, as Douglas had put it, an ‘infamous blogger’ who had recently been featured in the more mainstream side of the news, following his series of exposes on minor celebrities and random members of the public who, Mr. Smith made abundantly clear, were some flavor of G, L, B or occasionally T. The people in question had not so much been outed as embarrassed, through Mr. Smith’s signature blend of half-truths, outrageous fiction and photoshopped illustrations. Had he been a fourteen year old with too much time on his hands, no one would have taken notice, but as it happened, he was a thirtyfour year old with too much time on his hands, who, by some inexplicable mechanism, had become the internet’s flavor of the month. And now, he needed to get to Geneva. Martin didn’t know why, and he didn’t much care, but he didn’t like it.

* * *

“I don’t like this,” he told Douglas, as the two of them waited patiently for Arthur to let them know their passenger was on board.

"Not a fan then, are you?"

"A _fan_?"

"He's got a _very_ popular blog."

"Douglas, what makes you think I would follow someone's blog; I don't even have a computer! I read my e-mails on my six year old Nokia, which takes five minutes to download a single message. It's a miracle I'm able to function in the modern world at all." There was an elderly Mac in the lounge at the student housing, but Martin didn't trust his personal business to its browser cashé.

"I suppose that does explain why it takes you a week to reply."

"No, that's because I'm _busy_. Some of us have better things to do than faff about on the internet all day."

"'Faff'. Such a wonderfully under-used expression, I've always felt. You're quite the wordsmith; it's a shame you don't e-mail more often."

Douglas was giving it his all, but the quip fell flat, lacking in enthusiasm; Martin could tell his heart wasn't in it. "You're on edge too."

"I don't like him any more than you do, Martin, but it's only a two hour flight." Douglas shifted, not _quite_ failing to disguise his obvious discomfort. Martin let it lie, despite his rising curiosity. Why would a queer-outing LGBT blogger make _Douglas_ uncomfortable?

* * *

"Erm, everyone?"

Arthur eased his way into the cockpit, carefully closing the door behind. They had taken off much later than mum had insisted, just on the edge of losing their second flight window, and no one was going to be terribly pleased about that, Arthur knew. Nothing doing; they couldn't take off without a passenger - well, they _could_ , but nothing good ever came out of that - and Mr. Smith had arrived and had been security-instructed and buckled in and then left alone as per MJN policy (which applied to all cabin crew which meant, well, him), but then he had _talked_ to Arthur, and that wasn't- oh, they were both staring at him. Waiting, probably. Right.

"You know that thing you said, about me refusing to answer any questions?"

The skipper groaned. "Arthur..."

"No, it's all right; I didn't answer anything. “It's just... there's something I don't understand."

"Just the _one_ thing?" Douglas was reading the in-flight magazine they'd borrowed from Air Britain's lounge; the one with the really interesting article on Estonian wines. He wasn't looking up, but that was understandable; it was a _really_ nice article.

"It's just that _you_ said not to answer any questions, and _mum_ said not to answer any questions, but Mister Smith says that's why he's here."

"He's here not to answer questions?" Douglas had turned to the page about gourmet salts.

"He's here to _ask_ them. He said someone at MJN agreed to an interview."

"What?" The skipper spun round, then quickly turned again, fixing his eyes on the instrument panel. "Who?"

"Oh relax, Martin. Arthur; he's only saying that to get you to talk to him. Just ignore it."

"No," Arthur shook his head, "he got an e-mail. He showed me. On his phone. I told him he wasn't allowed to use that during the flight," he added, quickly.

"Who was it from?" The Captain sounded a bit odd. Like his voice was coming from deep inside his body.

"That's just it; he doesn't know. It's sent from the main address, you know, mjn@mjn.mjn.mj... no, mjn@mjn-"

"We know what you mean," Douglas interrupted. "So it wasn't signed?"

"No. It just said they wanted to do an interview with him, seeing as how he was flying with us, and they wanted to take advantage of the opportunity."

"Oh." The Captain's voice was still odd. He looked a bit worried, actually. Then again, he usually did.

Douglas waved him away. "Never mind; I'm sure it's nothing. Just don't speak to him again. All right."

Arthur nodded. "All right." He glanced at the skipper again, who was starting to look almost green. That was strange, wasn't it? Why would an Elgeebitty blogger wanting an interview with one of them make the _the captain_ uncomfortable?

* * *

Douglas _very_ measuredly looked out the port-side window. It was a calculated and practiced thing, appearing so utterly nonchalant under any circumstance, but Douglas had, very early in his career, found it to be invaluable. It certainly was when flying with Captain Martin Crieff. At, least, he told himself while casually glancing over the pitot-static instruments, the airspeed indicator was showing the proper readings again. It had been a heady few weeks while Martin had to compensate and re-calculate in his head. How he'd manage today...

Martin coughed, all the while trying to hide the fact that he was doing so. Really, the man had moved beyond the pale - hah – shading into green, and now, positively _teal_. This would have to be confronted sooner or later, but on the whole, Douglas would prefer it be later. He had a lot on his mind. The quiet helped; it was easier to hear himself think. So long as Arthur was kept relatively at bay, he should be able to work his way out of this particular conundrum before-

"Douglas?"

Oh, damn and blast. "Yes, Captain?"

"Don't captain me, I'm not in the mood."

"Goodness, this _must_ be serious." It was, of course. Hopefully, however, Martin didn't know that Douglas knew he knew.

Martin glared at the little green switch just below the mach-meter, which none of them had ever figured out what did. Obviously, none of them had every pressed it. "Do you... have you figured out who it was that e-mailed Mr. Smith?"

Douglas rolled his eyes with practiced ease. "Oh, _come_! That was an obvious tactic to get Arthur talking. It's nothing. He probably faked it."

"Yeah, but..."

"But _what?_ "

"Well, it doesn't take much to get Arthur talking, does it? He wouldn't need to fake evidence; he could have just asked very politely."

"Mr. Smith doesn't know Arthur," Douglas persisted, patiently.

"He must know _something_ ; he's interested in the interview. He must have some idea who sent the e-mail; he must suspect!"

"And you think he suspects _Arthur?_ "

"I don't know! It could be him; it could be any one of us!" Martin threw his arms out, momentarily letting go of the controls, much to his personal panic when he realized what he'd done. When he was safely back in control, Douglas went on:

"You're right; it _could_ be any one of us. But it isn't."

"How do you know?"

"I know it's not me."

"You'd hardly tell me if it was, would you?"

"No," Douglas admitted. Martin, he had noted more than once before, was considerably calmer when he had an outlet for his frustration. If they could keep this up until they were past the alps, they would be home free. Or at least Switzerland free, which was rather free indeed. "You're just going to have to trust me on that one. But I also know it's not you."

"How do you know it's not me?"

"Because messenger pigeons have a quicker response time than your personal e-mails; I can't imagine how long it would take you to log into MJN's account, check _those_ e-mails and then respond before the sender lost interest or someone else got there before you, and still have time to eat and sleep."

"Well, I don't do much of that anyway," Martin grumbled, but Douglas could see he saw he had a point.

"So, you see?"

Martin shifted. "It could be Arthur. He was acting a bit strange this morning. Almost nervous."

Douglas sighed. "Martin, apart from _everything_ else I've just told you, why would an interview with an LGBT blogger make Arthur nervous?"

Martin did not reply beyond a few grunts, but Douglas, behind his mask of eternal calm, pondered his own question. Why, indeed?

* * *

To his shame, the first thought that went through Martin's head was _he looks shorter than I expected,_ and consequently, he blushed. blushing was _bad_. Blushing was the absolute worst thing he could do, because it made his face almost the exact same shade as his hair. The second thought that went through Martin's head was that he shouldn't look pink when talking to this man, and _that_ thought was so outrageous that his body actually began to reverse the reaction.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm the captain," Martin snapped, immediately, turning sharply and grabbing at the nearest seat. He had, he realized, been staring at Mr. Smith for close to a full minute.

"Yes, the hat was a bit of a giveaway."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't really a compliment, but you're welcome." Mr. Smith frowned, adjusting his glasses. His height was not the only thing that differed from Martin's mental image of him; in fact, he looked nothing at all like a sassy LGBT blogger. His glasses, though designer and wireframed, were not overstated. His hair was cropped so short as to be barely there, highlighting his evident male-pattern baldness in a way that was almost flattering. Martin, whose full head of ridiculously curly hair looked 'manageable' at best, felt an irrational stab of jealousy."Did you want to ask me something?"

"What makes you say that?" Martin recoiled, slightly, grabbing the headrest of a nearby seat for support.

Mr. Smith pursed his lips. It made him look _less_ gay. It _shouldn't_. "Well, for one, you're out here," he made a little circle with his head, indicating the passenger cabin in general, "rather than flying the plane, which, from what I understand from pilots, is what they usually do."

"Yes, well. Not _all_ the time. Sometimes," Martin cast about for a reason, wanting to throttle himself when all he could come up with was; "we go to the loo."

"And _are_ you going to the loo?"

"N... no. Not as such."

Mr. Smith nodded, patiently waiting until the throbbing in Martin's temples reached a breaking point (was it visible - it felt like it must be), and he wailed;

" _You think I wrote the e-mail, don't you!_ "

Mr. Smith's face remained calmly passive. "I do, now."

Oh god. Oh _god_. He'd fucked this up big time. Fucked it right up the - oh _god_ , that sort of thinking was exactly what had gotten him into this mess; _think, Martin; think!_ "What are you going to do about it?"

"If it's all the same to you, I thought I might interview you."

" _Why?_ "

"I should think that rather obvious."

"What if I've changed my mind?"

Mr. Smith sighed, leaning back into his reclined seat. "Look, I do have better things to do with my time. I don't care what any of this is really about, but it's beginning to get on my nerves. If you're going to be like that, I'd rather just drop it, if it's all the same to you." He waved a hand, as if Martin was a waiter to be dismissed. "Oh, and get that bubbly boy-man to get me a G&T, would you? I'd ask you to get one yourself - you look like you need one - but all things considered..."

Martin hardly heard him. He was already in the galley outside the cockpit, heart somewhere between his esophagus and his tonsils. _He thought I'd written the letter. I thought I'd written it_.

But Martin _hadn't_. Had he?

* * *

"Thanks - oh, could I get a wedge of lemon to go with that?"

Arthur began to nod, then stopped himself, turning the gesture into a half-shrug. He opened his mouth. Then he closed it. Then he opened it again. He looked at the floor. He looked at Mr. Smith's shoes, which were even shiner than the Captain's, but they looked different, like perhaps that was the color they were meant to have been all along, and not just the color of the polish that had been on sale at ASDA that particular day. Arthur only knew because the Captain had sent him there once, and he'd only given him enough change for the-

"Well?"

Oh. Right. Arthur bit his lip. He tried the shrug thing again, but it didn't seem to be working. All it did was make his shoulder itch.

Mr. Smith sighed. "They told you not to talk to me, didn't they?"

Arthur nodded, filled with relief.

"It's OK; I'm sure they didn't want to keep you from doing your job. You can say 'yes' or 'no'."

Arthur's mouth opened again, but only for a moment. This all felt awfully familiar. In the end, he clamped it shut; that generally seemed to be the safest option, in his experience.

This time, Mr. Smith sighed deeper, rubbing his temple with one hand. There was a ring on his ring finger, which, the back of Arthur's mind prodded, had some significant meaning, but it was all a bit much to take in right now. "All right. How about this: If you've got some lemon to put into my drink, go right ahead and do so. If not, just leave."

Oh, that was _brilliant_. Arthur broke into a smile, grabbing the drink and heading off to the galley. They did have a lemon in there, but Mum didn't like it when he used any of the sharper utensils after what had happened in Dubai. But still, if Mr. Smith wanted him to get some lemon, that was more important, because the customer was always right, and - right; that wasn't really a wedge... so to speak... but all right, it fit into the glass, and it was bound to taste more lemony now, which had to be the reason why he asked, really. Hadn't it? Arthur kept mentally reassuring himself as he brought the considerably wetter and citrussier glass back out into the cabin.

"Thank you," Mr. Smith said, only grimacing very slightly as he took a sip. "Look, he added, just as Arthur was about to leave, "I have to ask - you don't have to answer," he added, possibly noting the look of panic on Arthur's face. "Just stay here if it's 'yes', bugger off if it's 'no', OK?"

Arthur remained where he was. He didn't know what else to do, to be honest.

"I can't figure this out. _Someone_ sent me an e-mail, and I'm pretty sure it can't be that wet blanket of a pilot, so is it you? I just figure, since they're so keen not to let you talk to me..."

Arthur frowned. His leg twitched, not quite knowing where to turn.

Mr. Smith waved a hand. "My fault; Jesus... Yes or no: did you write the e-mail?"

Arthur grinned. He fumbled in his pocket for the napkin he realized he'd forgotten to hand over, then hurried off. That was _easy_. Because, well, it hadn't been him. And it wasn't the Captain. So... The cogwheels of Arthur's mind turned, much like the drift of the continents they were currently flying over.

Oh. _Well_.

 

"...and prepare for landing."

Douglas took great care not to make his sideways glance at Martin all too obvious. Despite what the man had just said, he looked nowhere near prepared, let alone such a complicated procedure as landing an aircraft. Knowing that the best strategy in these situations was to pretend everything was perfectly normal, he made certain to hum in that way Martin found particularly annoying while doing his own checks. With any luck, the distraction would pull him out of himself enough that the actual flying-a-plane bit would happen by muscle memory and instinct alone.

Martin was actually a rather decent pilot, when he stopped worrying about whether he was or not. Douglas saw the latter being brought about as his most important job.

Well. Second most, perhaps. Keeping the GERTI in the air was somewhat of a priority, too.

"I've never actually been to Geneva," Martin muttered once they were, thankfully, safely down on the tarmac.

"Have you not? It's a fascinating city; you should take some of the fifty minutes of our scheduled layover to really explore the place."

"At least we won't have any passengers going back; not that I'm thrilled to be going straight-"

Oh dear; there came that look again - acute panic coupled with utter bafflement. "Oh, come on; don't tell me you're allergic to accidental innuendo!"

"I can't help it! I can't take this anymore; I've started to doubt my own memory! It's you, isn't it? Please Douglas; can't you just _tell_ me it's you, even if it isn't? It might help; at least then I could start reassuring myself that as far as I'm concerned I'm probably not gay!"

"Martin, for god's sake; get a grip!"

"I've had a grip - I'm sick of gripping - I do it all the time! All day long, I get my grip and I grip it for all its worth, because if I let go, it'll be like letting go of the steering column!"

"As in, absolutely nothing would happen?"

Martin was about to snap back at him when the cockpit door flew open. "Arthur, you _know_ you're supposed to knock!"

"Sorry skip; sorry Douglas - I'm just here to tell you-"

"What?" Martin's eyes, by nature somewhat small and set at an odd angle, were doing their best to bulge.

"I'm just here to tell you, mum's going to be a bit late."

"Carolyn?" In defiance of the laws of physics, Martin's eyes grew even wider. "I didn't know she was coming back with us."

"You expected her, perhaps, to take the Orient Express?"

"I mean, I didn't know she was here - how late is she running?"

Arthur frowned, what passed for his mind clearly working. "About half an hour."

"Half an hour? We'll miss our flight window!"

"Well, that's how long she said the interview would take."

Douglas had already stuck his hand out to catch Martin as he fainted. These little things were all part of the job, really.

* * *

" _Carolyn?_ "

"Martin," Douglas handed him a warm, steaming mug of what was hopefully tea, "you've been saying 'Carolyn' for half an hour. I think we're all familiar with the concept at this point."

"But-"

" _Please_ don't say 'Carolyn' again."

"It's just, I mean..." He gestured, impotently. The thing in his hands did smell rather nice - Martin risked a sip. Earl Grey. Well, it would have to be.

"Yes," Douglas told him, patiently, "we know."

"You know."

"We do."

" _Caro-_ "

"Yes, all right! We're all of us virtually astonished. Meanwhile, we have a new flight window, and flight checks to perform, before-"

The door opened. "Are my ears still ringing from listening to that imbecilic dirt digger, or did I hear someone whinge my name, repeatedly?"

" _Caro-_ " Martin managed to exclaim, before Douglas clamped a  
hand over his mouth.

"Sorry, sir. It's my old war wound; it tends to act up under stress."

"Which bloody war was that," Martin fumed, "the Crimean?"

"Evidently not one in which he learned the proper respect for authority." Carolyn eyed him over the top of what had to be a brand new pair of reading glasses.

"Oh, come on; since when have Martin and I stood on-"

"I'm not talking about Martin; I'm talking about _me_. I gave you _very_ specific instructions not to let anyone talk to our passenger, and what do I find? That he's been browbeaten with the collective neuroses of the entire crew!"

"I can't help but feel it would have _helped_ if you had simply told us it was _you_ he was here to interview." At Carolyn's glare, Douglas added, "with all due respect."

Carolyn shuddered. "How I hate that phrase; it means the exact opposite of what it sounds like, and you know it."

"Yes, but-"

"But nothing! I didn't tell you he was here to interview me, because I knew you wouldn't have been able to shut up about it. And your whispered inane guesswork would become much juicier blog fodder than the dry cracker equivalent I planned to provide." She folded her arms, looking, Martin thought, altogether too pleased with herself.

"Yes, well, about that; why did you ask him for an interview in the first place? Surely we would all be better off just ignoring him?" It was not the question Martin, or by the look of him, Douglas, was burning to ask, but it would have to do, for now.

Carolyn sighed. "Is that _really_ what you think would happen? Or is the more likely scenario that he would corner each and every one of you - excepting Douglas, of course - and work you up to the point where you would spew out the most ridiculous nonsense since the last Health and Safety guideline update booklet?"

"Excepting Douglas;" Martin bristled, "why excepting Douglas?"

"Because," Douglas clarified, "I'm straight."

"You're..." Martin swallowed. Wait. Straight, as _opposed_ to...

"Almost entirely grade A heterosexual. Disappointing, I know."

"A... and Arthur..." _And you,_ the Martin below his carefully constructed surface screamed, _what does this mean about you?_

Carolyn shook her head. "I daresay he doesn't know himself. But whatever the dear boy is, I certainly don't want him finding out like this!"

"Finding out what?" Arthur came in to fetch Martin's cup, and Carolyn , in a shocking display of affection, brushed some lint from his uniform... well, from his jacket, at any rate.

"Nothing, dear. Just go and get the cabin ready."

Arthur made no move to leave. "Are you explaining how you're not a lady, except you are, but sometimes not, and sometimes a man, except, I mean, not a _man_ man, but it doesn't matter because gender is a bit silly anyway?"

Martin dropped his cup. Douglas retained a carefully impassive expression; the one he saved for when he was particularly baffled. Martin realized he had no longer been holding the cup, which was a stroke of luck, really. The bit of him that was just below the surface was yelling awfully loud now, and he rather felt he might go ahead and faint again; it had been relaxing, and a whole lot less confusing.

"I think," Douglas said, finally, "that she doesn't have to, now."

 

"Shame we don't have any passengers," Martin groused as he, despite this fact (regulations being what they were) switched the 'fasten seatbelt' sign off. "I could have regaled them with facts about the historic sights of Geneva, as visible just to their left, seeing as how I never got a chance to see any of them myself." He sighed. Truthfully, he didn't give a toss about the sights, but going straight back to Fitton meant no hotel stay, and no free breakfast, continental or otherwise. "Rather pointless, isn't it all?"

Douglas shrugged, carefully. "Well, it's a job..."

"I don't mean the flight; I mean the whole..." he waved an arm, helplessly, careful to avoid any of the instruments, "interview thing."

"Ah. Yes. Something of a kerfuffle, I agree."

"I mean, why not just ask him to shove off; why go to all this... this rigamarole?"

"He _was_ a paying customer."

" _Yes_ , but still! We could have handled him. Couldn't we? We're hardly Carry On MJN; we're... we're just normal blokes, aren't we?"

They flew in silence for a while, both sipping Arthur's tepid coffee. Well, presumably it was coffee.

"You're..." Martin began, not taking his eyes off the horizon, but Douglas interjected;

"Absolutely."

"And you're sure of that."

"Positive."

"100%."

"Since birth."

Martin nodded. Then he frowned. "How?" He asked, eventually, swirling the now cold dark brown liquid about in his cup.

"How am I heterosexual?"

"No, how are you... sure?"

Douglas did not reply. Instead, he took Martin's cup along with his own, and left, quietly. When he returned, the refilled contents smelled like actual beans had featured in its recent ancestry.

Martin looked at the cup. Then he smelled the cup. Then he tasted the contents. Then he frowned again, deeper this time. "You made me coffee."

Douglas shrugged.

"Why?"

"If there's one thing you can be sure of in life, Martin, it's good coffee. Not much else."

Martin considered this. He took another sip. _Maybe_ , he thought, it didn't really matter that much. After all, it was only coffee. You drank it how you liked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Douglas smile in his usual faux-deferential way. He sat down his cup, and flew on.


End file.
